


On the Basis of the Soul

by sea_level



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon Touching, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Consensual Daemon Touching (Implied), Period-Typical Homophobia (Loosely Implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 04:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20383924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_level/pseuds/sea_level
Summary: A man like Captain Quinn should have a bald eagle daemon. They're common enough among the younger Air Force pilots, a proud symbol of their patriotism and bravery. If he didn’t have a bald eagle, then he should probably have some other kind of raptor or maybe even a dog.This is why it comes as quite a shock when Professor Allen Hynek walks into Project Blue Book's headquarters for the first time and sees a raven perched up top of a filing cabinet, staring down at him with keen interest.





	On the Basis of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> hey sorry for disappearing, i got severely depressed and i'm still exhausted all the time, but i've been itching to write a daemon au with something for at least a year now and this one just came easy (as compared to my past painful failed attempts) so i did it
> 
> shitty crib notes from someone who read his dark materials like an eon ago and forgot pretty much everything:  
\- daemons are the external representation of a person's soul  
\- they take the form of an animal  
\- kind of like your conscience  
\- separation from daemon very bad  
\- other people touch daemon very bad  
\-- unless intimate and consensual  
\- you have to give them super cool names

A man like Captain Quinn should have a bald eagle daemon. They're common enough among the younger Air Force pilots, a proud symbol of their patriotism and bravery. If he didn’t have a bald eagle, then he should probably have some other kind of raptor or maybe even a dog.

This is why it comes as quite a shock when Professor Allen Hynek walks into Project Blue Book's headquarters for the first time and sees a raven perched up top of a filing cabinet, staring down at him with keen interest.

"Professor," Quinn greets with a perfect smile and an outstretched hand, and in that second Allen knows that Quinn is absolutely working some kind of angle.

A raven daemon. Intelligence, cunning, wit. Captain Quinn is not to be underestimated.

Allen’s assessment is, of course, correct.

* * *

If anything, Allen is glad that these Blue Book cases provide Antares with more of an opportunity to run around and get some fresh air.

On their second case, when they go to the forest for the first time on the hunt for the Flatwoods Monster, Antares takes off like a dart, sticking his nose into anything that looks the slightest bit suspicious and moving on when it turns out to be nothing.

"She doesn't get out much, huh?" Quinn comments.

"Unfortunately, the academic lifestyle doesn't suit him as well as it does me," Allen replies.

Quinn starts briefly at the use of "him" but doesn't otherwise acknowledge it. Instead, he says, "Physical activity aside, a Border Collie daemon suits you."

"Isn't that the point?" Allen asks and then walks away to see what Antares has found instead of waiting for an answer.

* * *

Schuetz has been acting strange, shying away from Antares when he seeks him out. It’s just like how he used to act before when Allen and Mimi had first met. Despite Mimi’s forwardness, the Eastern Cottontail had regarded Antares with a certain level of distrust up until three months before they were set to marry.

Allen still remembers that morning, remembers waking up to see Schuetz buried deep into the fur on Antares’ underbelly.

The sight had helped Allen cement their relationship. He’d known then that their relationship would succeed.

It’s only logical that it would work in the reverse. To see Schuetz pulling away breaks his heart because it means that Mimi’s starting to lose faith in him. And really, with all the time he’s spent dedicated to the University and to Project Blue Book and with all the danger that he’s brought home with him, why shouldn’t she?

Trust earned and lost is rarely regained and Allen has a sinking feeling that this is marking the beginning of the end.

* * *

"Her name is Minerva," Quinn says over drinks.

They've just finished a case and a relatively easy one at that. Sometimes the moon is the moon and meteors are meteors and drunk college kids misinterpret things they see in the sky. Allen can't help but find cases like this a little disappointing, but he'll take the victory regardless.

"Pardon?" Allen asks, confused by the non-sequitur. Hadn't they just been discussing the case?

"My daemon," Quinn clarifies.

"Ah," Allen says.

Minerva hops off of Quinn's shoulder and onto the table. She doesn't address Allen directly—to do so would be incredibly improper—but she does strut across the table, her glossy black feathers on display before hopping back on Quinn's opposite shoulder.

"She's beautiful," Allen says, for lack of anything better to say. 

"I just thought you should know," Quinn says, "seeing as we're partners."

A daemon's name is far from sacred, but some people are more private than others, and for Quinn to hand over his with more fanfare than simply referring to her and waiting for Allen to catch on means that this is a display of trust.

That, if anything, is significant.

* * *

The man in the hat doesn’t have a daemon. Allen has his suspicions the first few times he sees him, but it’s not a sure thing. He could have a smaller daemon, hidden in a pocket or under his clothes. The first time they talk, though, the man tells him outright.

The man explains that he is not, in fact, a man at all, nor a human for that matter, but it does nothing to appease uncontrollable the sick feeling in his stomach.

Not having a daemon is a little like not having a soul. To have no daemon suggests a lack of empathy and morality. Danger, unpredictability, it’s a bright blinking neon warning that the person in question is absolutely not to be trusted.

Still— If the person in question isn’t human at all, do the same rules still apply?

* * *

Allen meets Susie Miller exactly once.

It’s nighttime, late after Fuller’s fled his house, he and his Dachshund scared away by Susie’s gun and fox daemon.

Allen doesn’t ask too many questions about the fox. He doesn’t think too hard about how it’s said to be a sign of deception and cunning. Mostly he’s just glad Mimi’s safe and terrified that Fuller had managed to get into his house and terrorize his family.

In the process of trying to figure things out and getting everything back in order, he misses how Schuetz holds close to the fox, relying on him to get the comfort he used to get from Antares.

* * *

“Your math is wrong,” Antares says, slipping back into his Czech accent like he does whenever they’re alone. It’s a special gift from his parents, a reminder of his heritage. It’s not something he really wants to broadcast in this day and age, but it’s always a comfort to hear it.

Allen stops writing the equation out halfway and sets the chalk down on the rail beneath the board. “Where?” he asks.

“Not here,” Antares says. “Your work is correct. I meant your risk assessment.”

“My risk assessment?” Allen asks. He picks up the chalk and hastily scribbles out the rest of the line. He’ll be able to remember where he was going with the rest of the problem later.

“You should tell Michael how you feel,” Antares says. “Mimi’s gone. The longing is eating you up inside.”

“How I feel?” Allen rests against his desk and looks down to where Antares is sitting on the ground, his tail wagging determinedly.

“You like him,” Antares says. “You’re attracted to him.”

“Am I now.”

“Don’t be dense, Allen,” Antares continues. “I’m literally you. I will be good for both you _and_ Michael.”

“And since when is he Michael and not Captain Quinn?” Allen asks. “I have nothing but professional respect and admiration for him.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” Antares says. He leaps up onto the desk like he knows he’s not supposed to, upsetting a few papers in the process, but once he’s up there, he’s in a good position to nose his way under Allen’s arm. The contact is relaxing.

Allen’s content to leave the conversation there, not keen on picking it back up when Antares lets his silence stand for a while.

Antares must not be so content because he mutters, “And you know what they say about same-sex daemons and homosexuality.”

“Antares!” Allen exclaims. “That’s not funny! You and I both know that’s an incorrect stereotype.”

“Stereotype or not, you’re attracted to him just as you were attracted to Mimi,” Antares says, and then adds threateningly, “If you don’t talk to him soon, I’ll eat some of your research.”

“Why are you so insistent that I do this?” Allen asks.

Antares doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Deep down, Allen already knows.

* * *

As it turns out, fate does most of the work for him.

Some moonshine runners get it into their heads that they can get the cops off their back by paying some kids to report their late-night illicit activities as a UFO sighting.

Allen probably should have just dismissed the whole thing as a hoax and headed back to Ohio, but Antares knows all too well that he’s like a dog with a bone when confronted with any sort of mystery.

The moonshine runners are far from organized, but they have the element of surprise. Allen and Michael are out in a field at midnight, trying to try to figure out just what it was that the kids saw when something hard hits Allen up along the back of his head, and he blacks out immediately.

When he comes to, he’s squeezed into a trunk, Antares pressed against his stomach, Michael against his chest, and Minerva to his back.

He groans and rests a hand on Antares’ head, just to assure them both that they’re still alive and near. Antares lets out a high pitched whine and pushes himself into the contact. The bond between them is a little raw and sensitized, like one of the runners had picked him up in the process of dumping everyone into the trunk. It makes Allen feel a little nauseous and he tries to pull Antares up and closer to his face.

He accidentally jostles Michael in the process who responds by groaning and trying to roll onto his back. His bare arm nearly touches Antares, but he catches himself at the last second.

“Oh, shit,” he says. “Shit, where’s Minerva? My head fucking hurts.”

“She’s behind me,” Allen says just as Minerva accidentally stabs him in the back with her beak.

“Fuck,” she squawks and tries to flap around, only succeeding in whacking Allen’s clothed back further. She’s too large to maneuver around him easily in the tight space of the trunk. 

Though, somewhat humorously, Allen observed that she’d awoken with the same disorientation as Michael.

“Can’t she come here?” Michael rasps. “I need to— I wanna—”

“There’s not enough space over me for her to get over, and if I roll over to make more space, I’ll crush her,” Allen says. There’s practically no light in the trunk, and he can’t see if there’s anything like a slot or inlet where she can hide before he rolls over.

“Can you just grab her and hand her over?” Michael asks. “That would work, right? She’s a little squishy.”

The proposal is met with three gasps of outrage, one human, two daemon.

“Michael,” Allen says. “I’m not wearing any gloves.”

“So?”

“I’d be touching your daemon.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Michael says. “We’re partners. I trust you.”

Allen refuses to believe that Michael is that dense. “Regardless,” Allen says, “there are _implications_—”

“_Allen_,” Michael hisses, and Allen is about to acquiesce when the trunk door pops open.

Despite the fact that neither of them had been expecting it, Michael jumps out and has their attackers subdued in well under a minute.

“Let’s get these two turned in, why don’t we?” Michael says, taking a nice pair of leather gloves out of his pocket so he can toss the moonshine runners and their daemons into the trunk in their place.

Allen wonders why he didn’t just mention the gloves to begin with.

* * *

“We need to talk,” Allen says. He sets down the two drinks he got from the bartender down on their shared table in the corner.

“Do we?” Michael asks, but his easy smile and his open body language indicate that he’s not worried about whatever it is that Allen is going to say.

“Maybe we don’t have to,” Allen says, “but I’d like to.”

“Good enough for me,” Michael says. He picks up his whiskey and takes a sip of it. “How much did you pay for this?”

“It’s celebratory,” Allen says. “We could have died. We didn’t.”

“Fair enough,” Michael replies. “You won’t see me complaining.”

Allen drinks a little, hoping the alcohol will go to his head fast enough to give himself at least a little courage.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Are you that eager to let all of your colleagues touch your daemon or is that just me?”

Michael nearly splutters in surprise, but he manages to keep the whiskey in his mouth (as he damn well should at the price Allen paid for it). He forces himself to swallow, and then he says, “Nope, just you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m not partners with anyone else, am I?”

“You had a pair of gloves on you the entire time,” Allen points out. “Why didn’t you mention that.”

“I figured it would be easier than—”

“In what universe?” Allen asks, trying to keep his voice down.

“You didn’t let me finish!” Michael says. “I figured it would be easier than something like _this_ with _talking_!”

“How is daemon touching easier than talking?” Allen asks, his voice dropping to the quietest whisper he can manage while still trying to convey the force of his point.

“It’s easier when it’s something like _this_! The kind of thing that you’re _absolutely_ not supposed to talk about.” And then, to make his point, he gently rests his hand on top of Allen’s and looks him straight in the eye, refusing to let his gaze waver even a little bit.

_Oh._

Allen places his other hand on top of Michael’s and allowed it to linger there for a few seconds before withdrawing both. Silent acknowledgment and agreement. Based on the look in Michael’s eyes, they both understand. Allen smiles. They’ll talk through this properly at a more private place.

“Still,” Allen says, “in the back some moonshiners’ truck?”

“Can you honestly think of a better place or time? What other situation would warrant such a request?” Michael replies.

“Okay.” Allen nods his head. “You win.”

Michael grins, and, from his shoulder where his daemon is perched, Minerva preens.

* * *

They stumble into Michael’s place a little while later, more out of excitement than drunkenness. They’d both only had the one drink.

“Here,” Michael says. He locks the door behind him and then holds out his arm. Minerva jumps onto it and looks at Allen expectantly.

“What am I...?” Allen’s not sure what to do, if he’s supposed to pick her up or pet her or something else.

“Just hold out your arm,” Michael says, “like I’m doing right now.”

Allen mirrors him and Minerva jumps on.

“May I—”

“Anything you want,” Michael says. “I trust you.”

Allen gently runs a hand over her head and Michael falls back onto the couch, taking a deep shuddering breath. Antares seems to see this as an opportunity because he jumps up onto Michael’s lap and tries to nose his way under Michael’s hand. 

“Antares!” Allen scolds, and then he walks over to sit next to Michael and apologizes. “I’m sorry. He’s a little overeager. He’s been getting on my case about this particular predicament for a while. You can touch him, though. Open permission. You always can.”

Michael cautiously lowers his hand and scratches the top of Antares’ head with practiced ease, letting his fingers sink into Antares’ fur.

The sensation is overwhelming, just as Allen remembered it, and he’s glad he sat down first. To feel Michael’s hand on his very soul, to feel trust and acceptance and love and no ill intention whatsoever. It’s addicting and powerful and strong, and Allen has to fight to keep his eyes open and stop himself from losing himself to the sensation.

Allen lowers his arm and lets Minerva jump into his lap. He lets one hand stroke her back and lifts the other up to cup Michael’s cheek.

Michael sucks in a breath and nods.

So Allen kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> like most of my au fics, this is more of a proposal for an interpretation than an actual interpretation (hence why i write little snippets at the beginning as i start to cement the worldbuilding)  
regardless, i'm a little proud of the daemon assignments i did make. they're a little more generic than i was initially hoping for, but I thought they fit better
> 
> Okay, day after edit to explain myself:
> 
> Michael's daemon is mostly explained in-story, but I'll say a little more. First, his daemon had to fly. Second, I had to take into account his background with interrogation and psychology. To this end, I avoided prey birds and went with clever birds. That left me with corvids. I did a good amount of digging, but the "personalities" of the other birds didn't fit so we'll, so I went with Raven.
> 
> As for Allen, I focused in on three traits: loyalty, intelligence, and a continual need for mental stimulation. I eventually stuck with the border collie because they're family oriented, stranger wary, workaholics on top of the original three points.
> 
> Mimi's was probably the hardest. I needed an animal that was soft and a little skittish and has good observational skills. I was looking at small mammals for a while, bouncing back between too vicious and too passive before I hit the Eastern Cottontail, and it seemed to suffice so I stuck with it.
> 
> Susie and the fox should be fairly straightforward. Cunning, sky, strong. I didnt do a super deep dive since it only matters for a line or two.
> 
> Fuller got a Dachshund because he's stubborn and persistent and brave. Dachshunds are hunting dogs, which I thought matched up well with his story line. I didn't put a lot of time into it though.


End file.
